


Playing the Fool

by bea_bickerknife



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: (or the other way around), A Ball of the Non-Masked Variety, A General Lack of Boundaries, F/F, Frenemies to...Frenemies Who Sometimes Have Each Other's Backs, Jealousy Flagrantly Masquerading As Attraction, Olaf Being a Drunken Buffoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-04-14 08:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/pseuds/bea_bickerknife
Summary: Help comes from the most unexpected places...whether Esmé wants it or not.





	Playing the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I own none of the characters in this work, nor do I derive any remuneration from its posting.

There’s something about Beatrice.

Bertrand knows it.

Lemony knows it.

And on nights like this, when the Duchess’ ballroom comes alive with sparkling lights and sparkling conversation and sparkling wine, there are moments when Esmé knows it, too.

She knows, and she wishes like hell that she didn’t.

The string quartet is midway through a waltz, and waltzing is _out_. Leaning against a pillar at the far end of the ballroom, Esmé realizes with a flash of irritation that she hasn’t taken her eyes off her rival since the song began. The newly-minted Mrs. Baudelaire is known for her creative approach to codes, and this evening’s dress code is no exception; the black-tie formality, along with her inability to resist wordplay, explains the black ribbon she’s used to tie up her hair. The rest of her ensemble is white, from the pearls around her neck to the sandals on her feet, and with the hem of her ivory gown swirling around her ankles and a few soft brown curls escaping from their ponytail to frame her flushed and beaming face, Esmé supposes that to someone like Lemony, she might look vaguely like an angel.

To someone with _taste_ , however (and at the thought, Esmé reaches up to check that her peacock feather headpiece hasn’t drooped), she looks underdressed. Her lace gown is criminally unembellished. Aside from the lavalier and her wedding band, she’s wearing no other jewelry, and someone really ought to tell her that a few bangles or a pair of evening gloves might add some visual interest to the creamy tedium of her bare arms.

Those arms shift gently as she and Bertrand sweep past. Most of the volunteers whirling over the parquet have attended enough of the Duchess’ infamous balls that they’re at least proficient when it comes to dancing, but Beatrice is the only one who makes it look effortless. The waltz suits her perfectly, lively and subtle and less simple than it looks, and before any more thoughts like _that_ have the chance to occur to her, Esmé decides she needs a drink.

A snap of her fingers attracts the attention of a passing waiter. “May I offer you a canapé?” he asks. “The chef has prepared a selection of very fine delicacies…”

She snatches two flutes of champagne from the tray, knocks one back in a way she knows she’ll regret later, and sets the empty glass back down with enough force to send capers bouncing off several of the salmon tartlets. “Do I _look_ like I eat canapés?” she snaps, fixing him with a withering glare before turning on her heel –

And colliding with Olaf.

His hair is mussed, his tie askew, and he smells overpoweringly of the sort of liquor that the Duchess wouldn’t allow past the gates, let alone serve. “Well, hel _lo_ , Esmé,” he slurs in the general direction of her sternum. “Fancy bumping into _you_ here.”

“Not as fancy as you’d think.” Esmé’s grip on the stem of her remaining champagne flute tightens. “And I _sincerely_ doubt I’m the only thing you’ve bumped into.”

“Aww, but you don’t mind when a very handsome man bumps into you, do you?” The corners of his mouth curl into a lewd, lopsided grin. “Everybody knows you like getting _bumped into_. That’s why you always dress like a…” Even blind drunk, Olaf seems to recognize the look on Esmé’s face as a warning. “Like that,” he finishes, gesturing vaguely to indicate her slinky black dress with its intricate beading and its plunging neckline and its daring geometric cutouts.

“I dress like this,” replies Esmé coldly, “because it’s _in_. You know that.”

“Do you know what else I know?” He steps unsteadily toward her, leering. With a line of buffet tables to her right and the dizzying swirl of the dance floor to her left, Esmé has nowhere to go but backward, and she stumbles slightly when her back hits a familiar pillar. “I know you liked _bumping into me_ in the coat closet at Monty’s party last month. And backstage after rehearsal last week.”

He’s not wrong, but there’s a fine line between confident and pushy, and she doesn’t like where this is going. Before she can decide whether tonight feels like a champagne-to-the-face sort of evening or an elbow-to-the-solar-plexus one, an unexpected third option presents itself.

The hand that grasps Olaf’s shoulder as his fingers close around Esmé’s wrist is fine-boned but firm. “And I know you’re leaving,” states Beatrice forcefully. “ _Now_.”

“Who’s going to make me?” he asks. “You? _Hah!_ You don’t even _like_ her.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Beatrice glances toward Esmé with a slight frown. “But I like this” – and here she jabs at his chest with the index finger of her free hand – “even less, so yes, if you don’t feel like letting go of her and leaving on your own, I’ll make you.”

“ _Hah_!” he says again, though he doesn’t sound quite as sure this time. “I’d wipe the floor with you. I wouldn’t even have to try.”

“Are you sure?” Her tone is perfectly pleasant, but going by her white knuckles and the wince forming on Olaf’s face, her grip on his shoulder is not.

Olaf glares down at Beatrice.

Beatrice glares up at Olaf.

Then the final notes of the waltz fade away, replaced by applause and a rising tide of conversation, and Olaf abruptly relinquishes his hold. “ _Fine_. Nobody here knows how to have a good time anyway.” He lurches toward the door. “Come find me when your _bodyguard_ has the night off,” he calls to Esmé, loudly and spitefully enough to draw a few stares, before disappearing into the garden. 

Esmé sips at her champagne. “I hope you’re not expecting me to thank you.”

“I’m not,” replies Beatrice evenly.

“Because I didn’t need your help.”

“I know.” And with that, she turns and slips back onto the dance floor, the half-smile on her face as indecipherable to Esmé as one of her codes.   _  
_

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was requested by Tumblr user hara-ng-etheria.


End file.
